Sweet Beginnings
by the ersatz diplomat
Summary: Love's labors pay minimum wage; Tonks is a barista by day, ninja by night. Remus writes, or tries to. Sirius levels up. Non-Magical American AU. Written for the MetamorFic Moon Winter Hallows Advent.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Sweet Beginnings (1/4)  
><strong>Rating &amp; Warnings:<strong> Rated T/PG for language and a little bit of innuendo, Non-Magical American Modern AU OMGWTF.  
><strong>Prompt(s):<strong> hot chocolate  
><strong>Author's Notes:<strong> Bahahahah. I've always wanted to do this. Pays homage to my husband's talent for making Star Trek references at wildly inappropriate moments. The martial arts stuff was looked over by a RL friend who does Jujitsu, so it should be mostly accurate.

It was certainly interesting to try and think of ways to make these two crazy kids end up together without magic and try to still keep it…well, magical. Title is from the All-American Rejects song, 'Swing, Swing.' This dumb little fic has made me more nervous about posting than I think anything else ever has. I did my best to keep everyone in-character. XD

Posted request for LadyRuthless. :) 

* * *

><p>Early winter was her least favorite time of year – that seemingly endless, colorless stretch between Thanksgiving and Christmas when the sky was a continual shade of smoggy gray, spitting down snow in random bursts.<p>

Nymphadora Tonks (known mainly as Tonks for painfully obvious reasons) was walking fast, the collar of her coat hitched up around her chin and her head down, staring at an iPod clutched in her un-mittened hand.  
>Her cousin had sent it as payment for sweet-talking her boss into catering his company's Christmas party, and bless him, it was already stocked with decent tunes. And it was <em>pink.<em>

Thus musically equipped as she was leaving her morning shift at the coffeeshop, it was really Sirius's fault she bumped into a man and made him drop his newspaper. The shock of the sudden stop jolted through her and she swore aloud as her feet hit a patch of ice, her boots flew forward and the meeting between her ass and the cold concrete became imminent.

Falling was an utterly unsettling feeling– like missing a step going down a staircase – and lasted even after Newspaper Guy grabbed her arm and hauled her back onto the safe, crunchy snow.

"Sorry," they both said at once and she laughed breathlessly.

"Are you alright?" he asked, concerned creases forming over a pair of black-rimmed glasses that made her think of a history professor she'd once had, or maybe David Tennant as _Dr. Who_. The image was reinforced by a dark trench coat and a computer case over one shoulder.

Tonks nodded. Her headphones were down around her neck, a Daft Punk song blaring out of the speakers. Her Cookie Monster hat had slipped over one eye. "Sorry."

"No problem." He straightened her hat, seemingly unbothered by the loss of his paper (it was blowing down the street). "There you go, good as new."

A bus squealed to an air-brake halt at the sign, exhaust pouring out in smoky clouds behind it. He grinned and disappeared into the little crowd of people trying to board. She turned and walked home, feeling a little warmer.

Next morning, she found herself watching out the front window of the shop, distracted as she wiped down tables before her shift ended. The third or fourth time she looked, the guy with the newspaper was standing at the bus stop, reading the comics. Her stomach did a little backflip, as if she was falling all over again.

Molly never missed much. She walked over and peered through the foggy glass, hands full of empty mugs. "You know him?"

"No, but I'd like to."

Her boss laughed and disappeared behind the front counter. "Here," she said after a moment, and Tonks turned around. Molly held up a paper cup and nodded toward the door, winking. "I'll take it out of your check. See you tomorrow."

Tonks threw on her coat and bolted out the door with the drink, slowing to a casual walk as it slammed shut behind her. At the bus stop she bumped into him again, gently. When he looked up, she pushed the cup into his hand. Steam curled up from the holes in the plastic lid.

"Thanks," he said with a smile so bright she didn't trust herself to say anything that wouldn't sound completely idiotic, so she just smiled and floated home.

This happened every day for almost a week – she took out a cup of hot chocolate when her shift was over, just before he caught the bus to wherever guys in trench coats go. They never talked – just a quick, shy 'hello,' and Molly never once deducted the price of the drinks from her paycheck.

On Friday she found herself hurrying to work in the pre-dawn light. Tonks had always enjoyed waking early and helping open the shop. She liked the smells of fresh brewing coffee and baking pastries and the sounds of happy customers. A good-looking man who spent a few minutes outside in full view of the cash register (and might eventually come in out of the cold, she hoped) only added to the appeal.

Not everyone thought that her situation as ideal as she did. Her mother still contended she should do something more with her life but tolerated it with motherly affection. Her father, out of the pure contrariness she had inherited from him, encouraged her to do what she pleased.

Tonks didn't understand how anyone wouldn't be perfectly happy in her situation. She didn't need much to be satisfied with life, but admittedly, there was one thing missing (not to mention she was a tad weary of Molly trying to play matchmaker, her efforts usually featuring one of her own sons).

On Friday, Newspaper Guy (as she'd nicknamed him) didn't show up. She had to work late, broke a mug and burned her fingers on a hotplate.

"It'll be fine, dear," Molly said soothingly, patting her on the shoulder as she ran cold water over blistered skin. "He'll be back if he knows what's good for him."

Lacking an articulate reply, Tonks jammed her hat down over her ears and stomped home through the snow, swearing under her breath – frustrated at herself for getting so worked-up over some nameless stranger. 

* * *

><p>Sirius Black flopped down on the sofa, a can of Coke in one hand, Xbox controller in the other.<p>

"What the hell's wrong with you?" he asked, cheerfully, prodding the man next to him with a sharp elbow.

Remus was drawing on a notepad and occasionally jotting down a sentence or two. He gave Sirius a sideways stare that read _'tread lightly'_ or possibly _'shut up now and your death will be quick and relatively painless,'_ but Sirius had never been one to take advice to heart.

"Oh, I know that look. It's a woman, isn't it?"

Remus, vainly trying to avoid this conversation, kept silent still and continued doodling on the yellow legal pad. Maybe if he pretended he hadn't heard him—

"Hah! It is!" Sirius leaned over and tapped a finger on a hastily-sketched female figure. "So, she's hot? This woman? More importantly, is she real?"

—Of course not. Ignoring Sirius almost never worked – he was persistent.  
>He was worse than persistent; he was a full-size shoulder devil without an angelic counterpart.<p>

"Yes, she's real," Remus relented after a moment, giving his oldest friend a hurt look.

"Specifications? You know," Sirius drew the curvy figure of a woman in the air with both hands, still holding the controller. "Dimensions?"

"Three, at least," he said matter-of-factly, and got a glare for that one.

"Details, Lupin. Give me details. I need to know if she passes inspection."

"Inspection?"

"She has to have the Sirius Black Seal of Approval."

"Last time you tried to approve a date of mine, she ended up going home with you."

"I promise I'll leave this one alone."

"Well," he said with audible skepticism, "She's a little shorter than me, maybe an inch or two. Dark hair, I think. Dark eyes. Brown, maybe. I don't know much else, I've only seen her in a coat and hat. She has a nice smile—" he winced. "She's younger than me."

"What kind of younger?"

"Twenty-five, maybe?"

"You cradle-robber, you." Sirius rolled his eyes. "That's not so bad. Where did you meet this mysterious coat-wearing girl?"

"The bus stop. She brought me hot chocolate every day this week. With marshmallows. See, public transportation is a force for good."

"Psh. The ladies prefer the bike."

"Insane ones, maybe."

"The best kind of insane. You should try it sometime. So are you gonna ask her out or what?"

Remus shook his head.

"Why not? Wait, I've got it; you're too old to be pining after some girl and too busy to go out, amirite?"

He twirled the pen in his fingers. "I'd like to do all of that. Going out. Pining, or whatever. But I _am_ too busy, and no girl that age would date anyone my age …and then there's the chance of a relapse and I wouldn't want to put anyone through that."

"Excuses," Sirius huffed. "Girls that age love older guys. You'll see, we'll ask one." He pulled a phone out of his pocket and hit a button. It rang for a few seconds, then a faint female voice answered.

"Hey, Dora. Quick question. If you had to choose to go on a date with either a guy my age who has a respectable career and a nice apartment or a guy your age who spends his weekends smoking pot and lives out of his '87 Camaro, which would you pick?"

There was a moment of silence, then he laughed. "I'm thirty six-ish. Really. _Really._ Why? I'm collecting data for a poll." He paused. "Okay. We'll I'm glad you liked it. Alrighty. See you then. Bye." He hung up. "Survey says she'd rather date you."

"Who did you call?"

"My cousin's daughter. The one who took me skydiving, remember? You wouldn't go. That's a shame, Dora's a riot. You two would get along great."

"But should her opinion count? She's related to you, so naturally, she's crazy."

Sirius grinned and held up his fingers about an inch apart. "Yeah, just a little."

"Thanks for trying to make me feel better, but the confirmed bachelor thing seems to be going pretty well so far."

"Whatever. Not all women—" he started, then stopped and cast a sideways glance at his friend.

Sirius had been there when they were thirteen and Remus's mother had run off with a vacuum cleaner salesman. He'd made plenty of jokes about it (still did), but he'd been there to listen. Sirius had been the first to pry the truth out of him when he was diagnosed with leukemia at seventeen, and along with their friend James, had helped his dad sell their house and move their stuff into an apartment closer to the hospital. He'd been there through all the ex-girlfriends and a few chemotherapy treatments and a short-lived grunge phase, up until the accident.

That's the kind of friend he was, which only made Remus feel guiltier about the years he had spent angry at him for screwing up their lives, when it hadn't been Sirius's fault at all.

"Not all women are creepy stalkers. I think you should ask her out."

"Your cousin?"

"No," he frowned. "That girl you met."

"I don't know…"

"Psh. You writers are too romantically-minded. Every woman you see is a muse. I'm not talking marriage and chubby-cheeked babies, you idiot. I'm just saying, I hear getting laid helps with writer's block."

Remus rolled his eyes (even though Sirius was probably right). There were three kinds of women in his life at the moment – at each end of the spectrum were the rare-but-scary fangirls who found him at book signings and the majority of women who just didn't see him. And then there was the girl from the coffeeshop, who noticed him but whom he didn't need a restraining order against.

…Yet.

"I do not have writer's block."

Black looked pointedly at the sketches on the notepad and nodded, unconvinced. "Just sayin'," he held up a placating hand. "The goddess of bus stops and cocoa, huh? Does she have a name?"

"I'm sure she does," Remus said flatly, indicating that he had no idea what the woman's name was, despite all attempts.

"You're pathetic."

"I know. You tell me all the time."

"How's that new story coming along?"

"Slowly. I need to do some research." He looked at the page of scratched-out notes and half-assed sketches for a moment, in silence. "You really think I should ask her out?"

"Yeah, you should. You deserve a nice girl who might eventually get naked while you're in the same room."

He grinned. "I'd settle for dinner and conversation with another intelligent being."

It took Sirius a minute to get that one.

* * *

><p>Chapter 2 to Follow...<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two!

* * *

><p>Tonks pushed open the door to the ladies changing room, turning on the lights and a space heater, giving it a few minutes to warm up before she wiggled out of her clothes. Shivering, she put on her uniform and finished it off with a recently-acquired green belt. She braided her hair tightly in two pigtails, frowning at the mirror.<p>

Saturday was her day off and she'd spent it grocery shopping, wondering what had happened to her friend from the bus stop and working on next week's shift arrangements – two of Molly's kids wanted to work over Winter Break.

A little meditation never hurt anyone, so she sat on the floor of the locker room (close to the heater), forcing all thoughts of handsome strangers and shopping lists and work schedules out of her head. When she left the changing room, it was with a focused, undistracted mind.

Or so she would have claimed.

That inward calm, pretended or not, imploded when she saw a familiar face among the group of kids sitting on the bench against the wall. There were a few other adults, but the majority of their audience was twelve and under.

Tonks stared for a second – wondering if her imagination had gotten the better of her.

Nope, it was him – Newspaper Guy, writing in a notebook. He looked up and smiled in recognition. She smiled bewilderedly back.

"Don't mind him." Moody, the instructor, walked up and leaned heavily on a staff. "He's just doing some research for a book or somethin'. Better get your warm-up in." He nodded toward the tall man who was kicking a bag hanging from the ceiling. His white uniform stood out distinctly against his dark skin and gold glinted on one ear. "Kingsley's almost ready to start."

She blinked, straightened the hem of her uniform and surreptitiously checked her reflection in the mirrored wall. Fully aware of being not just observed but keenly watched, she started with a few Tai Chi moves and then began a solo form, moving through a series of blocks, strikes and kicks that got progressively smoother, each blurring into the next.

It was much easier to do without thinking, when her brain let her body take over and the precise placement of hands and feet became automatic, but the feeling of eyes following her didn't let up.

Until she had started training, Tonks had been stuck in a seemingly permanent clumsy phase. It hadn't lasted long – Moody didn't allow "I'm a klutz" as a viable excuse for accidentally kicking someone in the face.

She had originally started taking classes as a teen – an alternative to the ballet lessons her mother had insisted upon. She didn't have the natural grace for ballet, though, and being able to defend herself if necessary was way cooler than prancing around in satin shoes (no matter if they were pink or not).

"Nice," Kingsley said, walking up behind her as she whirled to a stop. "You've done better though."

"I can always do better."

He nodded, grinning. Their students sat down on the floor and Moody began describing the techniques they would be using, and though she heard his instructions, she couldn't have repeated them.

They bowed to one another and started with simple strikes and blocks – parrying in a circle. They had done the carefully choreographed demonstration dozens of times - now progressing into a few basic holds and throws as Moody narrated. Kingsley caught her in a rear choke hold, one huge arm around her neck.

"You seem nervous," he said in a low voice only she would hear. She pulled down on his arm with both hands, then turned into the hold and broke it. As he backed off and threw a strike, she seized his wrist and spun around him, pulling his arm up and behind him. The careful application of pressure sent him to one knee on the mat.

"Nervous? Who, me?"

He gave her a skeptical look before she let go and they took their places opposite each other once again. She feinted, then rushed him, but he turned and flung her to the ground in a shoulder throw. She broke her fall on her left side and turned the motion into a roll, springing back up and aiming a roundhouse kick at his chest. He was deliberately slow with a block – her kick connected and he dropped into a backward rolling breakfall, coming up on his feet, ready to strike again. Shacklebolt's eyes darted to the audience and he winked at her. "Dude's checking you out."

He jabbed another punch at her and she blocked it with a forearm, then threw one of her own straight into his stomach. Kingsley doubled over on cue and she wrapped an arm around his neck, grasping her own wrist. She fell backward onto the mat, flipping him over her shoulder.

The floor shook when they landed and she twisted onto her knees, pinning him to the mat with a guillotine hold.

He grinned broadly up at her. "Undue force, Nymphadora. Quit showing off."

Moody nodded at her and she released the hold. Kingsley stood up and shook her hand.

"I think you have a fan."

"Oh, shut up," Tonks said, blushing. The kids took their places on the mat and Newspaper Guy, watching with wide eyes, was feeling around on the floor for the pen he had dropped.

* * *

><p>"Sirius. Are you busy? What are you doing?"<p>

"A little leftover takeout, a little Halo 2. What's up?"

"I saw her again," Remus said without preface. He was standing outside the dojo, shivering as he waited for his taxi.

"Saw who?"

"You know. Her."

The door behind him clicked open, and speak of the devil, she stepped out – the white uniform abandoned for dark jeans, boots and a motocross jacket. Surprise registered on her face, an inquiring look in eyes that seemed familiar (now that he was getting a better look).

There was a tiny pink iPod clipped to the collar of her jacket and the headphones were already in her ears; he could hear the hiss of cymbals with a kick-drum beat that raced alongside his own hammering heart. For a moment she looked like she was about to say something, then noticed the phone in his hand and kept walking.

She smiled as she passed, a vision realized in sugar-scented electronica and black leather.

Remus almost, _almost_followed her.

He'd taken half a step when the sound of Sirius screaming _"Die, die you alien bastards!"_stopped him. If he was half as clever as people claimed, he would have thrown the phone into the street and ran after her.

Sirius cleared his throat. "Sorry. Oh, right, the hot chocolate girl. Where?"

His eyes followed her progress to the parking lot. She stopped at a sleek, low-slung black and chrome motorcycle, pulled on the helmet hanging from the handlebar, then threw a leg over the seat (damn, but she had long legs) and kicked the bike into gear.

If it hadn't been so hell-freezingly cold, he might have melted into a puddle where he stood.

"Remus. Hello? You still there?"

"…What?"

"Where?"

"Where _what_?"

"For god's sake," Sirius muttered, "Where. Are. You?"

"Oh. At this karate place. I was doing some research for the book—"

"And she was there?"

"Yes," he said, leaning back against the brick building. He had never been cool. Mediocre popularity, good grades and that ill-poet look combined with a tendency to almost die on a regular basis only got him so far with the girls (and with only a certain demographic, at that).

Nowadays a few junior high kids thought he was fantastic, a few junior high English teachers had sent him love letters (literally), and he spent his days making up stories about fictional people that were still more awesome and interesting than he had ever been. This was, in the words of Sirius, kinda dorky.

Sirius was shrieking about respawning and lag, effectively rendering his opinion on respective dorkiness invalid.

"Sorry, what?" Remus said, watching her pilot the bike to the street entrance with intense concentration, feeling completely intimidated and more than a little turned on, which was a weird combination (even for him).

"What was she doing there?"

"Beating up this huge guy."

"Cool. I have a cousin who does that stuff. What were you watching, Karate? Jujitsu?"

"No idea. I didn't catch much of the lecture."

"What the hell am I paying you for, then?"

"...You aren't?"

"Oh. Why'd you call?"

"I'm starting to wonder, myself."

"This is a new low for you," Sirius said brightly. "I'm impressed. Did you at least get her name?"

"Of course not," he said, with audible panic. "Unless it's 'Opponent A,' which I doubt."

"My god, are you completely inept?"

He swore and ran a hand over his face, struck by a sudden realization. "She probably thinks I'm stalking her."

"You kind of are."

"I am not!"

The girl on the motorcycle looked over her shoulder at him and waved, then gunned the engine and tore out into traffic, leaving nothing behind but frustration and the smell of burning rubber.

"Text me her picture."

"Wha—no!"

"You're no fun at all, are you? On Monday you're going to ask her out. No excuses. And don't roll your eyes, I can hear you doing that. Oh, you've got a meeting with McG and your agent at ten-thirty. Don't be late, you know how she hates that." He paused. "Is that a bike I hear—"  
>Remus hung up on him, maybe a little vindictively, grinning like a madman.<p>

_Monday._

* * *

><p>Chapter 3 to Follow...<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three, featuring a smackdown, Olive Garden and Sirius's thoughts on Neil Gaiman.

* * *

><p>Molly, as usual, was right. He was back at the bus stop Monday morning, the day a teenager tried to steal the tip jar.<p>

Tonks had seen it happen from the corner of her eye and sprinted out into the snow after the thief, apron strings trailing. She caught up a few steps out the door, and with a death grip on the hood of his parka, she tackled the teen face-first into a dirty snowdrift at the base of a leafless tree, using an arm-twisting hold to pin him to the ground.

"Give me back the money," she demanded, hauling him backward by his collar.

"Let me go, stupid bitch!"

She let her grip on his jacket slip and his face met the snow again. Accidentally.

A few people had stopped what they were doing and were staring – it was the tenuous first seconds of a confrontation and no one knew what was going on. The knees of her jeans were getting soaked and her hands were cold and red from the miserable wind, still wet from washing a sink full of teacups.

Most people would have let him go, but Tonks wasn't most people. She held him down and asked for the money again, trying to keep him from pulling his arm out of socket.

Trying to be gentle with him was a mistake – the kid wriggled, throwing his head back to hit her in the nose and mouth. Stars sparkled before her eyes and she tasted blood. While she was blinking and stunned, he twisted and threw an elbow with all the strength he could muster. It caught her just below her left eye and she lost her grip completely.

He scrambled out from under her, got to his feet and ran directly into an arm (holding a newspaper) thrown out at neck height. The young man dropped like a bag of sand and Molly's son Ron, about the same age, held him down and berated him for hitting a girl and hitting like a girl.

The money from their tip jar was scattered on the snow, several dozen dollars worth of damp bills and shiny, cold coins. A woman had started picking it up but the milk bottle it had been in was broken. Molly was standing in the doorway, wringing her apron in white-knuckled hands.

Tonks tried to stand up. Bright drops of blood were landing on the snow in front of her and the ground seemed to tilt. A hand caught hers, an arm wrapped around her shoulders and she was gently shepherded along into the shop.

She felt like an idiot. She should've just let him go, but since Arthur's accident at work this was the Weasley's only income and— oh god, what if he'd had a gun or something?

It took her a few seconds to realize she was saying all of this aloud and that she was now sitting at a table, having blood dabbed from her nose and split lip by a stranger with a paper napkin.

"It's alright. You're okay, everyone's okay. Well, except for that kid, he's probably pretty embarrassed right now."

A siren was wailing outside and she could see the flash of red hair between the hats of two cops. Tonks blinked and looked back to the person sitting in front of her.

"Hey, it's Newspaper Guy," she said, feeling a little shaky. Her voice sounded thick.

"So we meet again, Hot Chocolate Girl." The corner of his mouth turned up, but he kept a straight face. "You know, we should really take the time to make up some new superhero names."

He had her chin cupped in his hand and frowned slightly, holding the napkin to her lower lip. His hands were warm and he turned her face toward the windows, peering at her eyes – _'Checking for a concussion,'_ the logical part of her brain said. The rest of her was saying something along the lines of _'Eee!'_

His black glasses were gone today and his eyes, now that she could see them clearly, were gray-green-blue-brown with laugh lines at the corners. He was older than she would have guessed and she suddenly felt shy, silly, incompetent. Not that she would have been able to say anything intelligent anyway – thinking had become startlingly difficult at such close range.

"Be still, now. Don't lean your head back when you have a nosebleed, that'll make you sick."

"Are you a doctor?" she blurted out, feeling her face flush.

"No, but I play one on TV."

"Really?"

His smile made him look about fifteen and up to no good. "No, not really." He looked over at Ginny, Molly's daughter, who was watching with a pale face, and said, "Can you get us some ice, please?"

"It doesn't hurt," Tonks said, with the vague thought that she should ask him something, but the words knocked loose in her head wouldn't coalesce. Maybe she should just kiss him, she thought dizzily, but her mouth felt numb and she wasn't sure her teeth were all where they should be.

"Give it a few minutes. That was one hell of a hit you took." He glanced at his watch and with a look like he was apologizing for running over her dog, he said, "I'm really sorry, I have to go. Do you work tomorrow morning?"

She nodded, holding the handful of towel-wrapped ice Ginny had brought to her temple, absolutely screaming with delight inside as caught her hand again and squeezed it.

"I'll see you tomorrow."

Ginny accosted him at the door and forced a huge coffee and paper bag stuffed with pastries into his hands before allowing him to leave.

"Dammit!" she swore, five minutes later. The red-haired girl raised an eyebrow. "I didn't get his name. Did you?"

Ginny shook her head and Tonks sighed, huffing her hair out of her eyes.

Two police interviews, a job offer and one cup of chamomile tea later, the shock had started to wear off and a dark bruise had started to form under her eye. She took some aspirin and sat in one of the overstuffed chairs in the corner, her head pounding. Ron had been giving her looks that vacillated between fear and adoration for the past half hour.

Molly came around the corner with Tonks's coat and a bag of frozen peas. "Go home and rest, dear. Ronnie will drop you off. Call me if you need anything. We're doing your infernal cousin's Christmas party tonight and I need someone to do drinks. If you can't make it I'll have to get Charlie—"

"No, it's okay, I'll be there."

Tonks shuffled outside to the Weasley's old beater station wagon. She slumped into the passenger seat, holding the bag of peas against her face (which was hardly sexy as accessories went, but it felt great).

* * *

><p>The bus was squealing to a stop as Remus backed through the coffeehouse door, trying to balance the impromptu breakfast the little red-haired girl had forced upon him. A policeman was walking up to the building as he left, his partner was putting the kid in the back of the squad car.<p>

He hadn't meant to clothesline the boy– he'd only been trying to grab his arm. Hopefully the little thief had learned his lesson – being tackled and shoved face first into a heap of dirty snow by an angry ninja warrior woman would be hard to live down.

Remus walked into the office a full ten minutes late and received a double dose of womanly glare. He held out the bag of donuts and Danish. His agent looked assuaged, but McGonagall did not.

Ms. Hermione Granger was thumbing through a sheaf of papers. She was working in the literary field to put herself through law school and she wasn't even old enough to drink yet, which was bafflingly impressive even to someone who had graduated high school a year early while in and out of the hospital.

He sat down next to her, across a vast oak desk from a formidable-looking woman – Minerva McGonagall. Minnie McG was Sirius's affectionate and alliterative appellation for her, though he doubted the man had ever used it in her presence. She had hired Sirius (upon his release from prison) as business manager for the fiction division of her little publishing house at the suggestion of his also astronomically-named cousin, Andromeda, who worked as a publicist.

Sirius had coerced Remus into submitting a stack of manuscripts he'd had sitting in a closet for ten years and now he was here, published and no longer starving but still terrified at the prospect of presenting new work.

McGonagall stared him down over square-rimmed glasses, her hair in tight bun, and he couldn't imagine her enjoying reading youth fiction. Or any fiction. At all. _Ever._

The two women spoke rapid-fire lawyer lingo, stopping to ask him the occasional question, usually prefaced by Granger kicking him under the desk.

"Remus, she wants to know if you could turn this into several installments."

"Oh. Well, the idea had actually occurred to me—" it hadn't until that moment, "That I could stretch it out into a series. Maybe a trilogy."

"Email me an outline and we'll see." The editor rose from her seat and swept out of the room in a thunderstorm of gabardine.

"You owe me lunch," Granger said, giving him a baleful look as she gathered up papers and marched him down the hall to the elevator. "With dessert. I skipped an important lecture on copywriting for this and she wasn't very happy about your being late."

"Sounds like fun," he said distractedly. Now they were crossing the lobby to the exit, her heels clicking on the marble floor. She gave him a sideways look. "Sorry. I've had an interesting morning."

Granger smacked him on the arm with a folder as they crossed the parking lot to her silver sedan. "Lunch. Now. Get in the car."

When he blinked again, they were sitting at the bar at Olive Garden. He didn't remember ordering or eating, but there was an empty salad plate in front of him, half a glass of iced tea and some ravioli.

"That's it. You've met someone?" Hermione took a sip of her drink and didn't wait for him to answer. "That must be it. You haven't even looked at your tiramisu." She reached over and pulled the untouched dessert plate in front of her, taking a bite. The kid was astute, he had to give her that much. "And you've no idea how to turn this book into a series, am I right?"

"Not a clue."

She waved the bartender over for the ticket. Fifteen minutes later, she was booting him out of her car at his building and shoving a manila file through the window at him with an order to get to work.

So he did. Or he tried to, anyway.

Ninja Girl from the coffeeshop kept cruising around his brain on her shiny motorcycle like one of those circus stunt riders in a metal cage. He hoped she was alright, wondering if he should drop by and check on her. Surely she was allowed to leave after something like that. But what if she had been arrested for assault? Worse yet – what if she had a concussion…or retrograde amnesia?

His thoughts took off on a soap opera tangent with lots of drama, cheap dialogue and an evil twin before he could rein them in (even though he was certain she was at home with a bag of frozen vegetables on her face).

He had actually touched her, which proved she was real and not a product of his fevered imagination. He couldn't keep his mind off her. Didn't want to keep his hands off her – that first touch had done him in. With a little concentration he could still feel how soft her skin had been, the full curve of her lips under his fingers…

He put his forehead on the desk and sighed.

There was a reason for his apparent lack of girlfriend. No woman wanted to play second fiddle to a typewriter, that was true, but it wasn't just his chosen profession that kept the girls at arm's length. Hospitals and needles and looming death didn't phase him, but women… good god.

They were, as a collective, sugar and spice and absolutely terrifying. And resistance was completely futile. Though, as he had discovered, twenty years of being relegated to the Oh We're Just Friends Zone by most of the women he had ever been interested in would condition any man into leaving the fairer sex the hell alone.

Sirius would've cornered a woman, said something like, "Baby, I'd do you on sharp gravel," and he'd have an invitation to the nearest car/coat closet/dark alley within fractions of seconds. Or he'd get slapped. Or have a drink thrown in his face. Remus's efforts always seemed thwarted by the lack of that gene that lets some waltz through life without fear (or in Sirius's case, even the consideration) of rejection.

Or maybe it was the Star Trek references. At this point, who could tell?

Stymied by his own hallucinatory mind, he got another mug of coffee, wishing it was hot chocolate in a paper cup. He picked up a pen and started writing with the hope that he could decipher it all later, in a lucid moment.

It was dark outside when a buzz in his pocket made him jump – the damn phone. He flipped it open to read a text from Sirius, reminding him about the Christmas party that started in half an hour.

He made a panicked dash for the shower and the phone rang impatiently as he was going through the contents of his closet, toweling his hair dry with one hand.

"Hey, we're waiting outside."

"I'm on my way downstairs now," he said, throwing on a shirt, slacks and jacket, left his tie forgotten around the reading lamp on his desk, taking the stairs two at a time.

A black limo was parked at the curb and the door flew open. Sirius hopped out and eyed him critically from haphazard hair to an untied pair of faded Chuck Taylors.

"The rumpled nerd look works for you, but Neil Gaiman is still way hotter."

* * *

><p>Chapter 4 on the way...<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

The Final Chapter! Hope you enjoyed, despite the lack of magic.

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><p>Tonks's face hurt. Her hopes, though, were as high as ever. She stood near the towering Christmas tree in the ballroom of a hotel, holding a tray of drinks – expensive champagne in tall glasses. Her high heels were starting to pinch and blister her feet. People milled around to the sound of popular songs and Christmas remixes.<p>

This was not her kind of party – Jell-O shots and a Guitar Hero tournament were nowhere to be found. The crowd took drinks, ignoring her as if the tray was floating in midair. She ignored them right back, smiling brightly. It was easy; she couldn't stop.

After Ron had dropped her off, she had flopped onto her bed, pulled a pillow over her face and shrieked until she started giggling and had to have another cup of tea to calm down. It hadn't helped. Her thoughts were split between that morning and the next and the moment – the party she was at, didn't seem to exist at all.

She stood out among the gussied up crowd in her catering uniform – a knee-length black skirt, white blouse, and the pair of godforsaken black stilettos she was wearing now. She wobbled slightly in the shadow of the Christmas tree.

Her cousin Sirius ambled up to her, godson Harry in tow. His unruly hair was pulled back into a tail and he was wearing a suit for once, instead of jeans and a t-shirt. He, like her mother, had a brilliant mind for business but lacked that ruthless ambition of the rest of their family.

"Hey, Nymphadora. You can't kick me when you're carrying all those drinks, huh? Nice hair, very festive." He tugged one of her purple highlights. "Finally convinced Remus to come to one of these parties. If I can find him, I'll introduce you—Minerva! You look fantastic!"

He took off across the room in an ADD blur, leaving Tonks shrugging at Harry, who jammed his hands in his pockets and grinned awkwardly. Harry was a good kid, the child of two of Sirius's close friends who had been killed in a car wreck almost sixteen years ago.

It was the wreck that had put Sirius in prison. He had been out with three of his friends at a Halloween party – Harry's parents and their friend Peter, the designated driver.

Peter had spent the party with some shady people possessing even shadier substances, ending up in no state to drive (but attempting it anyway). Sirius realized too late that something was wrong and tried to make their friend pull over but Peter lost control of the car and flipped it over a guardrail. The married couple died of their injuries. Pettigrew pulled Sirius, knocked unconscious, into the driver's seat and fled.

Lacking any witnesses or evidence to the contrary, her cousin was convicted of drunk driving and negligent homicide. Years later, Sirius's friend Remus had seen Peter's mugshot on a news report about a gas station hold-up. After Pettigrew's eventual confession and a retrial, Sirius was released.

"Nymphadora," someone hissed. She turned and almost ran into her mother. Andromeda gave her a kiss on each cheek and leaned close to whisper in her ear. She pressed a makeup compact into Tonks's free hand. "People are starting to talk. You should go cover up that bruise or they'll think you were on _Jerry Springer_."

At one time, this would have been a prompt for Tonks to point out that she didn't give a damn who was saying what, but right now she couldn't be bothered.

"Okay. I need to get a few more glasses anyway. Thanks, Mom."

It was just the excuse she needed to escape to the kitchen.

Tonks set her tray next to the sink on the steel worktop and got to work—pouring champagne and topping off mugs of eggnog with swirls of whipped cream from a can and shaved chocolate. She wasn't a fan of eggnog but emptied the last of the champagne into her own glass, eyeing the Reddi-Whip can. There were voices coming from the hall.

"No, you need to meet her, she's great."

"If she's working we probably shouldn't bother her."

"Pfft. She won't mind."

Tonks turned around, one whipped-cream smudged fingertip in her mouth as two people walked in through the open door – Sirius, followed by a man in a dark suit.

"Hey, Tonks, I finally found him. He was hiding in the bathroom—"

She looked from her cousin to the other man and stopped breathing. He must have been thinking the same thing she was because for a second, he didn't move, and she stared into the very same pair of gray-green-blue-brown eyes that she'd been thinking about all day.

"Remus, this is Andi's daughter, Tonks. That's her last name, you can't call her by her first or she'll put you in a headlock and make you apologize with her fists of fury—"

He wore a bemused grin and was shaking his head as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

"Dora, this is Remus. I'm sure you remember me telling you about his books. I've known him for a long damn time—"

Her mind had put it all together before she realized what was going on.

Of course she remembered that name. He was Sirius's friend, the writer – the one he talked about constantly, who she'd never met. The one who got him out of prison.

"Remus Lupin. I've heard all about you."

* * *

><p>"I wish I could say the same," he said, sure that he'd never smiled so much in one day.<p>

The purple bruises around both of her eyes matched the violet highlights in her hair and a cut bisected her lower lip. It was definitely her, his girl from the coffeeshop.

Sirius frowned. "Yeah, I've told you about her. She's the one who does the kung fu fighting. We jumped out of an airplane, remember?"

They were clearly related – she had the same shaped eyes, but the manic gleam in Sirius's was, in her eyes, a sort of prepossessing earnestness.

…And the motorcycle suddenly made so much more sense.

He started to put together everything he had heard with what little he knew, and he liked her more every second.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," he said with as much solemnity he could rally, and she looked like she was about to burst out laughing, all grin and dimples. It must have hurt – her nose was probably broken.

She closed the distance between them and he thought she was going to shake his hand but instead, she grabbed a handful of his shirt and kissed him on the lips. It was a vivid, electric kiss, not quite indecent but not very innocent either. She tasted like Moët et Chandon and Reddi-Whip, and pulled away with a thrilling hint of reluctance and a daring smile.  
>Just a little crazy, he thought through a haze of endorphins.<p>

"Nice to meet you, too."

Dora Tonks (he was going to find out her real name, come hell or high water) picked up her tray of champagne glasses and walked out without another word.

Sirius stared after her, his head tilted to the side like a confused dog. Remus could all but hear the gears grinding. He cleared his throat.

"She seems nice," he said to the empty room. One of Sirius's deep-thought frowns appeared. He was about to figure it out.

"I'm just going to go, now..." Remus backed toward the double doors. Sirius blinked.

"Well, son of a—"

He slipped out the door and followed her without hesitating this time, catching her elbow as she weaved through the crowd of uptight literati.

"This is an interesting development." Tonks gave him a sideways glance as she passed her tray off to the redhead he'd seen at the coffeeshop. She laughed – a bubbly, bright sound. "So, Remus, how do you feel about going out?"

"With you? I mean, of course, with you…When?"

"Right now."

"Right now?" he echoed.

"Did I stutter?" she said, and caught his arm, pulling him through the crowd, down a quiet hall and out a back door to the loading zone for the hotel kitchen. Her shiny black bike was parked there.

"Where did you have in mind?" he asked.

"I dunno, maybe you could bring me a drink for a change? Something warm."

"I think I'd like that."

"I know I would," she said quietly, with a suddenly shy smile.

He still had her hand in his and they were both shivering.

Tonks looked at the motorcycle, then at him. "Have you ever—"

"Of course I have. But…not recently."

"Ah. I'm sure you'll be fine," she said, giving him an appraising glance, and he had the feeling they weren't just talking about the bike. "Well, let's do this."

He laughed. "I haven't done this in a while. You should know the risk you're taking."

"What fun is life without a little risk-taking now and then?" Tonks said, giving him a little push toward the motorcycle.

Remus considered this. "I'm not much of a gambler, but the odds do seem to be in my favor tonight."

The smile she shot him was very promising.

"They most certainly are."

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><p>The End. :)<p> 


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